


Stories from an 1830s winter

by a_temporary_soothing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, Alternate Canon, Angst, Canon Era, Christmas, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, One Shot Collection, Pre-Canon, Relationship(s), Smut, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 16,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_temporary_soothing/pseuds/a_temporary_soothing
Summary: This 24-day challenge Christmas one-shot collection written back in 2018 follows the friends of the ABC and the friends of the friends of the ABC in their daily life a few years before the 1832 uprising, in navigating their own lives, friendships, and new relationships... We will, for example, see:The daily misfortunes of ÉponineEnjolras and Grantaire, falling headlong in loveCombeferre and Courfeyrac, dangerously... experimenting...?and more...Basically, I tell the story of free-spirited youngsters, having fun and, in this version of the story, being way more free in their social life. Canon era, but I take my liberties. (bc liberté, égalité, Beyoncé, y'know)
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Family

**Author's Note:**

> The reason this is only 24 days and not 25 is because I'm Swedish, and in Sweden we celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve... I know, sorry...  
> It's also my first published fic, hence my incapability to write normal summaries and notes, and does have its imperfections since my writing skills were a bit wonkier back in 2018, but it's pretty cute so I hope you'll be able to roll with inconsistencies, melodramatic moments etc etc.

_Éponine  
December 1st_

____

____

The first day of December dawns, a cold day, without any snow but with people already full of Christmas spirit. At the market the salespeople are decorating their stalls with fir twigs and red ribbons, talking to one another about what goods they’re preparing, what sells best, what looks best; The people shopping are talking about when the snow’s coming, how they’re going to celebrate, discussing last year… It would be surprising to Éponine if her family had not always been the first in Montfermeil to prepare for Christmas. Like the salespeople, it had only been about the money. Her father had taught her when she was young that during Christmas, people are dumber, easier to trick into spending more money. They had made all they could offer to seem so much more special. Our rooms, extra Christmas spirit, our spirits, extra extra Christmas spirit. Which of course costs a little extra. Éponine would every year dread the day after Christmas when people had started sobering up and checked their purses- When they would realise the fraud of the Thénardiers. It was Christmas that had eventually brought them out of town. Éponine has gotten hold of a new shawl in cotton, warm and big enough to cover her arms down a good length beneath her waist. It’s a bit itchy, but at least it has no holes which is wonderful. She wraps it closely around her as she makes her way through the market, looking around at the stalls, smelling the newly brought in Christmas spices that make her stomach ache. Éponine finally spots the person she was looking for and silently walks up beside him.  
“Hi, Marius,” she greets. Marius looks up and smiles at her.  
“Éponine! Good to see you,” he says, stuffing his wallet back in the pocket of his winter coat which he wears for the first time this winter. “Should I say ‘Merry Christmas’ or is it too early?”  
“Far too early,” Éponine replies, smiling back, her heart fluttering in her chest.  
“My grandfather sent me to buy some kind of dessert for our dinner tonight. First December special,” Marius explains and looks down at the stall which is filled with different delicious pastries that Éponine hasn’t tasted in years, or perhaps ever- she doesn’t really remember.  
“Maybe those ones?” Éponine suggests, pointing at a soft bun covered with some sort of white, sugary dust.  
“Have you tried them?” Marius asks.  
“No. But I’ve wanted to. They look good.”  
“Let’s go for them. Monsieur!”  
Éponine watches him buy a few of the buns, regarding his wallet filled with money. Marius has said that it’s not money that makes Christmas, but family. He’s trying to see through his privilege of having money as his friends always tell him to do but Éponine does not have a family either. She refuses to call them that. She has Gavroche and Azelma of course, but only they cannot work as a family while the rest are there. That way Éponine can’t help but think that perhaps money and family go hand in hand. Marius thanks the salesman and they leave the stall.  
“Are you looking forward to Christmas?” Éponine asks, and Marius shrugs.  
“Not really. I want to, but I have to spend so much time with my grandfather and our other distant relatives and family friends. It feels wrong when I’m at the same time learning about everyone that can’t afford the Christmas we have. I hope that I can find time to be with my friends as well.”  
“To find out reasons to get even more angry at your grandfather?”  
“No, to have fun with them, of course!” Marius says. Éponine nods, wonders if she could come too. Like last year when she was allowed to enter the backroom for just a little, the ABC’s sacred little hideout. There she heard a little of their politics, but more of their relaxed chatter when they’d started letting other people who weren’t part of the group join them. They closed their business for Christmas once they had realised they weren’t getting anywhere. They aren’t really family to her, but at least people, a social life. She knows a few that she almost could call friends, even. And perhaps those friends would do well enough.


	2. Suicide

_Grantaire  
December 2nd ___

__“I was, believe it or not, once a pacifist.”  
“Then you came to the ABC and changed plans.”  
“Yes, exactly. But, my point is, I would rather not be here right now since I’ve not entirely lost who I once was.”  
“You’ve lost a very little part of yourself joining us, Jehan. So you were saying?”  
“I’m a pacifist during Christmas.”  
Bahorel bursts into laughter, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s the right thinking, my friend. However, our leading trio seem to have other thoughts on the subject.”  
Grantaire, standing next to them on the cold, wet field, scoffs. “You’re all too right. We’re in the Christmas month, and here we are, shooting at flour sacks.”  
“I can never understand if you like Christmas or not, R,” Jehan says. “Yesterday you were complaining about everyone making such a fuss of it.”  
“Of course there are things to complain about, but there are good things as well, more gatherings, less revolution talk. Except for now, apparently.”  
“We’re only two days in December, though, so Enjolras will be willing to keep going as long as we can,” Bahorel says. In the next second, the three of them jolt when a loud pang is heard.  
“Christ. Did he hit it?” Jehan wonders.  
“He sure did,” Grantaire replies. “Combeferre is good.”  
He watches Enjolras walk up to Combeferre with a fond smile from where he stood with the others at a safe distance. Grantaire, Jehan and Bahorel have withdrawn a little further away to talk, Bahorel having shot first and the other two taking their time to wait, preferably long enough to shoot last. Enjolras turns around, bellowing, “R!”  
Grantaire heaves a sigh. “Oh God, here we go,” he mutters and walks up to him. Enjolras is wearing a black waistcoat today, unbuttoned, his golden hair still a bit darkened by the rain they experienced on the way. Up close Grantaire also gets a better look at his face, at his cheeks and lips which are reddened by the cold. Enjolras hands him the gun. It’s heavy, its handle cold in Grantaire’s grasp.  
“Is it… ready for shooting?” Grantaire asks, staring at it.  
“It’s loaded if that’s what you mean. However, it needs to be cocked.”  
Grantaire looks up and grins. “Cocked?”  
Enjolras regards him with a serious face. “Yes. It’s uncocked right now, as you can see on the position of the hammer…” he explains, pointing at some part of the pistol. Grantaire doesn’t bother to look clearly, starting to laugh instead.  
“What are you laughing about? Quit it.”  
“You need to cock it from uncocked to cocked?”  
“To fully cocked…- But would you stop laughing!” Enjolras snaps, frowning at him.  
“Alright, alright,” Grantaire says, putting the hammer in place, aiming at the flour sack placed a good 50 yards away. It’s awfully far. Enjolras lifts his hand to move his arm a little and Grantaire swats his hand away, growing nervous of the contact.  
He pulls the trigger and there’s a sharp pang accompanied by a cloud of smoke.  
“Did he hit it?” Jehan asks from behind.  
“No, don’t think so,” Courfeyrac says.  
“I’ll try again,” Grantaire mumbles, cocks the pistol and looks up at the target.  
“Do you think we can move the target closer? It’s so far away.”  
Enjolras sighs. “I believe you’ll miss it from any distance since you insisted on drinking on the way here.”  
“You believe so?” Grantaire mutters. He quickly moves his arm, placing the pistol against his temple.  
“Do you think I’ll miss now, then?” he asks, staring at Enjolras. A look of terror immediately crosses the other’s face.  
“Grantaire…-”  
“Do you?” Grantaire repeats.  
“Stop it. Stop it right now!” Enjolras says, having turned completely rigid, as if he's afraid Grantaire will fire if he moves. The others are quiet, afraid to make it worse. But it doesn’t get any worse. Grantaire lowers the gun and Enjolras rips it out of his grasp before giving him a stinging slap on the cheek.  
“You absolute fool!” Enjolras exclaims. “How dare you do that? How dare you even think about doing that?”  
It’s easy, Grantaire thinks, he’s done it before. He stands quiet before Enjolras, trying to keep looking at him, but he can’t handle the intensity in his eyes, his anger.  
“This is no joke! Don’t you understand how dangerous it is?!” Enjolras says, but then pulls him into a tight hug. An embrace, almost, and Grantaire is surprised.  
“You can’t worry me like that,” Enjolras says, silently, so the others won’t hear.  
“Sorry,” Grantaire replies. “You shouldn’t hug me.”  
Enjolras draws back.  
“Your turn, Prouvaire,” he says, letting his attention off Grantaire. Grantaire knows very well what to expect now. Enjolras will ignore him, scowl at him if he tries to talk to him, and he certainly won’t be shooting more today. Grantaire retreats to the back of the group._ _


	3. Star

_Cosette  
December 3rd_

__Father has frozen again. Cosette watches him where he’s on his knees, in prayer before Mary. He hasn’t moved for half an hour and will probably remain there for just as long. Cosette has taken her time wandering around in Notre Dame many times before and is feeling a little tired of it. No, a lot tired of it, rather. She doesn’t want to disturb him, however, so a thought of perhaps leaving the cathedral enters her mind. Although father wouldn’t want her to. But only around the exterior, Cosette tells herself, only for a few minutes. Before she can change her mind she quietly leaves him, and in the next moment pushes open the heavy wooden doors and ventures out to the darkness of the late winter afternoon. It’s raining just like yesterday, wetting her hair down. Cosette puts her bonnet on and walks down the steps of the cathedral, turning to go into the park running alongside its outer walls. The park’s bareness and wetness should be no surprise to her, yet she had expected the lushness and light from when she was here this summer. Silly me, she thinks, leaving the gravelled path to walk on the soft grass, not caring that her shoes might get wet- she likes the softness opposed to the usual, hard cobblestone streets of Paris. A sudden cough from the bushes makes Cosette jump back.  
“Hello?” she calls anxiously. There is no reply, and for a moment Cosette just stands there, afraid she will meet someone drunk and angry, something she’s experienced before. The person staggering out of the shrubbery is indeed drunk, but not angry. And it is not a old man like she expected, but a young woman, a girl her age, meager and soiled in worn-out clothes.  
“Mademoiselle, can I help you?” Cosette asks, standing still, a bit frightened but worried about her.  
“No, I’m good, thank you,” the girl replies and brushes her dark hair out of her eyes. She looks up at her, regarding her tiredly.  
“Are you sure?” Cosette wonders, but realises that the girl might be a stubborn one who doesn’t think she needs help. She does need help, Cosette can see it, otherwise she is lying to herself. She walks up to her.  
“How are you? You’ve drunk quite a lot, haven’t you?”  
“I’m okay, I’m fine,” the girl slurs.  
Cosette pulls off her gloves and shoves them into her skirt pockets before gently taking the other’s cold, cold hands. She brings them together and up to her own face without a word, the girl watching her in confusion. Cosette blows warm air and carefully rubs them, bringing some warmth back in her hands. The girl closes her eyes.  
“You could borrow my gloves, but they won’t do much,” Cosette says. “Perhaps I could help you into the cathedral and go buy you something to eat from the market. You hungry?”  
“I’m fine. You know, I usually don’t drink…”  
The girl sways on her feet, and Cosette takes hold of her elbows to steady her.  
“Easy there. Do you want to sit down, at least?” she asks.  
“Alright.”  
Cosette helps her walk over to the bench overlooking the river, a bit further off from the cathedral. She lends the other her cape before sitting down on the wet, cold stone. The girl plops down next to her clumsily.  
“Ah, I’m seeing stars,” she groans, tilting her head back. Cosette looks up. It has stopped raining, but there are still clouds covering the sky. Of course, the girl wasn’t speaking in a literary sense, Cosette realises, feeling a little stupid.  
“What’s your name?” she asks her.  
“Éponine. You?”  
“Cosette.”  
“Funny,” Éponine says, stretching out her arms and yawning. “I knew someone called Cosette once…”  
“And I knew someone called Éponine.”  
Éponine looks over at Cosette, and slowly, her face falls.  
“Great God,” she says before covering her face with her hands.  
“Are you alright?”  
“...Alright? Are you serious?” Éponine wonders.  
“Why wouldn’t I be?”  
“You shouldn’t have to ask. Just look at me! Meanwhile you, you have turned out kind, and rich, and pretty…”  
Tears escape Éponine’s eyes, and she hastily brushes them away. Cosette brings out her handkerchief to hold it out for her.  
“I’m trying to be kind, but it doesn’t do any good. The world doesn’t get better. He doesn’t notice,” Éponine says, taking the handkerchief to wipe her cheeks.  
“Who?” Cosette wonders.  
“No one. No one at all.”  
“Okay.”  
They sit silent next to each other for a while, watching the dark water of the Seine flowing by, a few boats passing.  
“I’m seeing stars as well,” Cosette says then, and Éponine looks confused at her.  
“What do you mean?” she asks.  
“There,” Cosette says and points at the sky. The rain clouds have cleared away, revealing small, glittering stars.  
“Oh,” Éponine breathes, a small smile spreading on her lips. “Those stars are way better." _ _


	4. The remote's gone

_Grantaire  
December 4th ___

A mattress, a drawer, a wash basin, a chamber pot. It may seem small, but it’s a very common way of living in Paris these days, and it’s actually rather cosy. The mattress may be a mattress, but it’s soft and has plenty of blankets and pillows. The sky outside is deep blue, already starting to get dark, so Grantaire has lighted some candles. He enjoys the silence where he sits on the mattress, back supported against the wall with a good bottle of wine in his hand. A peaceful silence lingers in the room.  
Well, save for Enjolras’s occasional coughs. He tries to be quiet, but doesn’t really succeed, having just gotten a cold. It’s his third cold he’s had since the beginning of fall, and he’s not happy about it. The first thing he did when he entered Grantaire’s small garret was to complain about his cold. Grantaire replied by blaming it on him working too much and resting too little. Enjolras, of course, wouldn’t have it.  
Thankfully he hasn’t talked about what happened on the shooting field last Sunday. Grantaire has been afraid of that he would bring it up, of that Enjolras would still be angry at him- it was, really, a stupid thing to do, and he constantly tries to think of reasons why he did it. He was drunk, angry, tired, done with Enjolras. Or simply, he is a stupid fool who can’t think before he acts.  
But sometimes... He has that one frightening realisation, that throws him off balance. Of what actually caused him to do it. It freaks him out- guns freak him out- because he gets so fascinated by what they can do. After all, they do hold the power of life and death...  
“Grantaire.”  
Grantaire starts, looking up at Enjolras who’s seated beside him. His writings are placed on his knee, a book under them for support, a bottle of ink on the floor on the side of the mattress. He had been hesitant placing it there, not wanting to accidentally stain the floorboards. Grantaire had assured him it was okay.  
“… Yes?” Grantaire says.  
“Can I have some of the wine?”  
“Um… Of course.”  
Enjolras takes the bottle that’s held out for him with a remote look in his eyes. He’s had it since he came here, just a quarter of an hour ago. He’s pondering about something.  
“What are you thinking about?” Grantaire wonders.  
“Nothing in particular, really, if not my work,” Enjolras says, not looking at him but at the wine. “Why are you asking?”  
“Are you sure? You’ve been thoughtful since you came here.”  
Enjolras frowns a little. Not unusual. It comes naturally when dealing with Grantaire.  
“If you must, I’m thinking about last Sunday. But talking about it will probably lead to us arguing and honestly…-” he pauses, drawing a hand through his hair that he’s let out of its braid. “I’m too tired to do that just now.”  
“Just tell me what it is, I won’t answer,” Grantaire says, anxious but curious.  
“It’s a question. You’ll just get mad.”  
“I won’t get mad, it’s you who’ll get mad!”  
Enjolras gives him a warning stare and Grantaire forces himself to not let that be an invitation to bother him further. He looks down at his charcoal sketch of long, curly, unbraided hair. It’s not often Enjolras wears his hair down, and of course, Grantaire won’t waste the opportunity of capturing the moment on paper.  
“Alright,” Enjolras sighs. “I admit my defeat. I’d like to know.”  
“Go for it.”  
“Have you had suicidal thoughts?”  
Enjolras has really taken his time thinking it through, formulating the question he needs the most to be answered. Grantaire picks up his charcoal pencil, turning it between his fingers.  
“Ooh, trick question. I don’t know, maybe?”  
Enjolras gives him a look, and Grantaire lowers his gaze.  
“The issue is, I used to struggle with this one little question-Should I keep hoping that he will care about me, or just give up because he never actually will? And nowadays it has turned to... no, it’s practically the same, just that now I’m sure of that he also hates me…-”  
“Don’t say that.”  
“Why not?”  
“First, don’t blame it on me. I know there’s more behind it. And second, I don’t hate you…-”  
“You do, as a matter of fact- Becoming closer to you has only proved it…-”  
“You are lying.”  
Grantaire scoffs. “Am not!”  
“Yes, you are!” Enjolras argues. “And remember that I respect everyone’s right to be listened to, and that you aren’t an exception…”  
“Hm, who’s the liar now, huh?”  
“Oh, hush,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire starts to laugh.  
Enjolras puts away his papers next to the ink, shuffling over to sit closer to Grantaire, facing him.  
“If I told you I actually liked you, would you believe it?” he asks.  
“Oh, have I ended it all already?” Grantaire groans, looking to the side.  
Enjolras lifts his hand and places it under Grantaire’s chin to have him look at him again.  
“Hold this for me,” he begs, handing the bottle of mulled wine back to Grantaire before cupping his stubbled cheeks, kissing him softly. Grantaire draws in a breath in surprise before he relaxes, sighing a little into Enjolras’s warm, slightly open mouth that tastes of the wine. He just sits there clutching the bottle, thrown off guard like he always is when Enjolras kisses him, but also feeling a bit lazy. Enjolras’s tiredness has worn off on him. He pulls back a little, admiring his ocean eyes like many times before. And see, the remote in them is gone. He’d thought them to be conflicted by his own disturbing babble but no, he can maybe hint some affection in them.  
But Grantaire knows better, he is not stupid. Enjolras would never have affections for him.


	5. The mystery gift

_Cosette  
December 5th ___

__A mysterious brown package tied up with a red ribbon lies hidden in the bushes at Cosette's gate. She carefully picks it up, brushing off some morning frost that has gathered on top of it, and brings it inside. Inside the package, a little note scribbled on lavender scented paper lies on top of a beautiful, shimmering white scarf.  
If mademoiselle has the time and would like to meet, I'll be in Jardin du Luxembourg this Wednesday before noon to stay a good while throughout the afternoon. I hope you enjoy this simple gift.  
Simple, Cosette reads and rolls her eyes. The present is all things but simple. It is lovely, she thinks, feeling the soft fabric between her fingers. It must have taken a while finding this. She places all of it on top of her drawer and starts getting dressed before breakfast. Her father already ate a few hours earlier, having woken up early like he does every day. And as always, he lets Cosette sleep for a long as she wants to, and eat breakfast whenever she wants to. The time is drawing close to eleven and she decides she’ll ask if she can go to the park right after breakfast. Cosette puts on the dark purple dress she laid out yesterday, deeming it appropriate for the occasion. It’s warm and comfortable too, fitting for today’s weather. It’s growing colder and colder each day, and she wonders if it perhaps will start snowing soon.  
Breakfast passes. Cosette eats her bread and cheese, adding a pastry afterwards since it’s Christmas (even if she often adds a pastry anyway), and father sits with her, reading his newspaper. Their chat is laid back until Cosette finally poses the question, feeling a little nervous about it.  
“Father, can I go to Jardin des Tuileries after breakfast? Alone, if you would allow me?”  
Father stirs, putting the newspaper down on the table and heaving a concerned sigh. “What are you going to do?”  
“To walk of course! What else did you think I was going to do?” Cosette says.  
“I didn’t think long enough,” father answers, smiling at her. Cosette returns his smile, however, still feeling anxious. “But... will you let me? You said I would be allowed to go to parks soon, and since it’s in the middle of the day, and it being Christmas…-”  
“I know, I know. I guess I will have to let you go,” father says, sighing once again.  
“Thank you, papa,” Cosette replies with a smile before eating the last of her breakfast and making herself ready to leave.  
It is indeed cold today, and Cosette wraps her new scarf tighter around her neck to make sure there’s not any bare skin that the cold can get to. She’s been walking in the park for a couple of minutes, not knowing exactly where she would meet the deliverer of the mystery package. She knows, of course, exactly who the deliverer is. She knew it from the moment she saw the bumpy little package with its uneven bow laying under the bush in her garden. Typical of him to not sign his name.  
After a short while, said deliverer comes half-running, out of breath with his freckle-covered cheeks red.  
“You needn't hurry so much, monsieur Pontmercy,” Cosette laughs, “You're not late.”  
“Yes, I realised so now,” Marius breathes, pulling out his pocket watch to see the time, 11.30. “Oh well. It's nice to see you again, dear Cosette.”  
“It's nice to see you too,” Cosette says, smiling at him.  
“Should we go for a walk?” Marius asks, and she nods. “But slowly, okay?” he adds. “I'm still a bit tired from running…-”  
“Of course,” Cosette chuckles, linking their arms together, and they start walking._ _


	6. I hate Christmas

_Enjolras  
December 6th ___

__“Christmas, my friends,” Enjolras says, not wanting to hear the word Christmas a single time again, “Is capitalistic humbug. So, we will not speak of what presents to buy in this room.”  
“Not until December the twentieth, at least,” Courfeyrac adds down from his seat next to him. Enjolras, standing up rather than sitting, sighs.   
“Yeah, thank you for the reminder, Courfeyrac.”   
“It won't work, though,” Grantaire says, his chair turned to them at a table further away, “It'll just turn out like last year. Gods, that was the most pointless, boring time I ever had- We stopped focusing halfway into December, and from that it was only talking, talking, talking! about what Christmas traditions we had and if we should celebrate the occasion which we did all too much- drinking countless amounts of Christmas punch every meetup, totally exaggerating the excitement of mistletoes, getting to know too much of everyone’s living quarters...-”  
“Oh, but that was a splendid time we had!” Bossuet says, interrupting the other’s ranting. “We got a chance to start knowing each other for real.”  
“We did, and I don’t regret that I got to know everyone- at least the most of you,” Grantaire says and the others laugh at his last words knowing who it was directed to. Enjolras rolls his eyes.   
“But- we had too much fun. We had so much fun, it was boring,” Grantaire continues, waving his bottle along as he speaks. “You can’t keep milking Christmas, but we all do. That’s why I hate it.”  
“But Grantaire, you don’t hate Christmas,” Joly says.  
“Yes he does,” Bahorel says. “Remember last year when we decorated Courfeyrac’s tree? He sat in the corner, drinking brandy, complaining about how pointless Christmas trees are, and in that moment I realised that the man actually hates Christmas.”  
“And he ripped down the mistletoe after me and Enjolras stood under it,” Courfeyrac points out.  
“I was saving you from doing something really stupid,” Grantaire says.  
“It was a joke!” Courfeyrac exclaims.  
“Everyone doesn't see that! They can interpret it in the wrong way and from there, you are in really grave danger…”  
Enjolras has been wanting to stop their babbling, but Combeferre stops him with a mere look.   
“Let them be,” he says to him quietly, “Or they won’t want to talk about anything else later on.”  
Enjolras guesses he’s right. Something about Christmas really gets them talking, sets them into an unhealthy mood of speaking utter nonsense. But it has to leave in some way. Enjolras leaves the conversation to them, letting them talk it off._ _


	7. Teams

_Feuilly  
December 7th ___

__A large black carriage drawn by four horses teamed up in pairs stood on the street outside the orphanage. The little boy behind the gate regarded it curiously, brushing his unkempt hair out of his eyes. It was a windy day in Paris, on a street both for the poor and the rich- and odd, but actually quite healthy mix for the inhabitants. The poor were not bashed on or ignored by the rich on this street. They were greeted normally. But of course, there were still great differences. The houses of the rich were surrounded by stone walls, with gardens and exquisitely furnished rooms. The houses of the poor were smaller, could be shared by multiple families, or in the little boy’s case, by lots of children in an orphanage.  
A child on the other side of the road stood at her gate as well, but that gate was bigger and fancier than the gate to the orphanage. She was dressed all in black, tears streaming down her cheeks. She mourned her mother and her little brother. The girl had longed for a sibling for such a long time, not wanting to be an only child, but her dream had only been true for half an hour.   
The orphan kept wondering how much it cost to hire that carriage, to hire as much as four horses, and of course all the other things the family must have invested in- the priest, the gravestones, the place on the cemetery. There was no room for his parents in a cemetery. Or at least, no money. So naturally, they had to go to the common grave.   
“Feuilly, what team are you in?” one of the children of the orphanage asked the boy, startling him a little. “Red or white?”  
“Eh, red,” Feuilly replied.  
“Come on, then,” the other said, pulling at his arm. Feuilly did not want to play ball again, but figured he shouldn’t stand at the gate thinking of the past.  
Many years later he does think of the past, because of an obvious reason- the black carriage in front of him. It is not as large and is pulled by two horses, but still, he’s reminded of that day.   
“Do you want red or white wine?” Bahorel asks Feuilly where he stands by the window.  
“White,” Feuilly replies quickly, baffled by the coincidence. To choose red once again would be too much of a déjà vu. Odd, how some seemingly insignificant memories linger on._ _


	8. Next year

_Enjolras  
December 8th ___

__Exams are coming up soon, and Courfeyrac had suggested the three of them could go to a coffee house before retreating to someone's place to study. Enjolras and Combeferre were very positive to coffee, so here they are, sitting at a round table covered by a white lace tablecloth. Upon it are cups, a coffee pot, sugar, milk, and lots of pastries that they couldn’t help but order. Enjolras is a little displeased by the place- it's too fancy for his liking.  
“Oh, the life of some people,” he sighs, glancing at the other visitors’ expensive clothing. “How could you live like this? Going to extravagant cafées every other day, just sitting still, chatting about pointless things…” Enjolras continues, picking up a pastry.  
“You eat that, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says. “Just ignore it and treat yourself for today.”  
Enjolras forces down his feelings of wanting to take distance from the ways of the bourgeoisie and starts eating the pastry. Today, Courfeyrac has also brought his one year old niece, having to babysit her for some kind of reason, although Enjolras and Combeferre think it's just because he thinks she's cute. She sits in his lap, cute with a dark flop of hair and big eyes and all.  
“Would you like a pastry, Anne?” Courfeyrac asks and the little girl nods happily, almost dropping it when he hands her a pain au chocolat. She manages to hold onto it with her little fingers at last.  
“How interesting,” Combeferre murmurs where he sits with today's paper next to his coffee cup.  
“What is?” Enjolras wonders.  
“Ah, they've had some new discoveries in Egypt. Some drawings of the stone tablets are included in the paper, with hieroglyphics…”  
The others smile at his excitement, knowing well of his hobby of deciphering hieroglyphics.   
“Would you mind sitting in Enjolras's lap for a while, darling?” Courfeyrac asks Anne.  
“What?” Enjolras says.  
“I have to pee,” Courfeyrac says and stands up, grinning cheekily at Enjolras's slightly distressed face when he places Anne in his lap. When he's gone Enjolras looks at Combeferre.  
“I'm not good with children,” he says to him.  
“I know,” Combeferre replies, smiling at him before looking down at his paper again.  
Enjolras wraps his arm around Anne's waist to make sure she's sitting safely, straightening her green dress that has been ruffled slightly, and wonders what to do.  
“Should I give her coffee?” he asks Combeferre.  
“No, you should not give her coffee.”  
Enjolras regards the little girl.  
“Hi, Anne,” he says then. “God, you're so small, I'm afraid I would break you. Do you want some milk?”  
Anne just stares at him. What did he do wrong? Enjolras picks up her glass of milk, guiding it to her lips. He tilts it against her mouth, and she drinks at first, but then she spits it out.  
“Be gentle, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras scoffs at him. He's not reading but instead keeping an eye on him. Perhaps it's for the best. Enjolras tries pouring it for her more slowly and it works out well this time. Anne seems a little restless, though.  
“Madam' Veto avait promis, Madam' Veto avait promis,” Enjolras sings and Combeferre looks up at him, raising his eyebrows. “De faire égorger tout Paris…-”  
“Enjolras, really…-”  
“But look, she’s interested- de faire égorger tout Paris. Mais son coup a manqué, grâce à nos canonniers…”  
As Enjolras sings, a smile starts growing wider and wider on Anne’s face.  
He comes to the chorus and grabs hold of her hands to make her clap along, which she gladly does.  
“Dansons la carmagnole, vive le son, vive le son. Dansons la carmagnole, vive le son du canon!”  
And he continues on the second verse, and the third, and the fourth, and Anne is soon trying to sing along, giggling in the cutest way.  
“Okay, stop, Courfeyrac is coming,” Combeferre says at the sixth verse.  
“Why are the others looking at us like that?” Courfeyrac asks as he sits down.  
“Because of Enjolras’s bad parenting skills,” Combeferre replies.  
“But Anne looks so content!” Courfeyrac exclaims, looking at the little girl who rests her head against Enjolras’s shoulder, twirling a lock of golden hair in her hand with fascination.  
“I sang a little tune to her,” Enjolras explains. “I think they hate us by now,” he continues more quietly, gazing amused at the distraught people at the tables nearby.  
“He sang the Carmagnole,” Combeferre states, and Courfeyrac bursts into laughter.  
“Oh, my brother’s going to hate me,” he sighs. “But he already does, so, oh well.”  
“It was nice coming here, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says.  
“I know, thought so too. We could come here next year as well, make it a Christmas thing.”  
“Yes, I could see myself coming here next year…” Enjolras says. “What do you think, Anne?”   
“Of course you're bringing Anne,” Courfeyrac laughs, amazed at their newfound friendship.  
“Or rather, she's bringing Enjolras,” Combeferre remarks.   
“I came here because of you two, actually,” Enjolras snorts. But the other two are just smiling at him._ _


	9. He didn't come

_Musichetta  
December 9th ___

__Today, it's a meeting. Musichetta sees Bossuet rush in a few minutes past six o'clock, unfortunately not noticing her because she's crouching behind a desk, but she does not see Joly. The time passes, and he doesn't show up. Musichetta grows a little worried, wondering what's going on. Her shift is finished a little while before they are finished and she spends some time having a glass of wine while she waits. Eventually, Bossuet comes out with Grantaire, excusing himself when he sees Musichetta.  
“Good evening, Chetta!” he greets gaily, kissing her on both cheeks.  
“Evening. Is Joly not here today?” Musichetta wonders. Bossuet shakes his head.  
“No. The rain, you know,” he explains, and Musichetta sighs.  
“Will you join us today?” Bossuet wonders.   
“That's why I'm here, silly,” Musichetta replies.  
“No, it's because of your work.”  
“And because of you. I've chosen my work shifts wisely. Let me get my clothes.”  
Musichetta leaves Bossuet at the bar and walks into the staff room, fetching her coat, gloves and bonnet. Bossuet has a small talk with Prouvaire who was just passing by, and then they get going.  
“Joly simply cannot stay inside every time he thinks it's going to rain,” Musichetta says once they're outside, continuing their conversation. “It hasn't rained yet today.”  
“And December will be full of rain and snow. His fear is growing, and I don't like it. I'm growing a bit scared too, actually- the frost and ice in December is nasty!”  
Musichetta laughs. “But that's another kind of fear. He doesn't have to be as afraid of slipping on ice patches all the time.”  
They slip over to talking about everyday things, how the meeting was, how work was, until they come up to Bossuet and Joly's place. Joly is studying in bed when they enter.   
“Hi, Joly,” Musichetta greets and his face lights up.  
“Oh, hi, how nice to see you!” he exclaims, looking on as the two of them take off their coats and make themselves comfortable inside. Musichetta sits down on the bed, leaning forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. Joly directs her to his lips instead.  
“How are you?” he asks her.  
“Lovely,” Musichetta replies. “But our Bossuet told me you didn't want to go out in case it would rain.”  
“Aren't you going to greet me, too, Jolllly?” Bossuet says, sitting down next to them.  
“Of course I am. Come here,” Joly urges, grabbing by his cravat to kiss him.  
“Yes. I know I shouldn't be that scared,” Joly says once he's sat back. “I'll be better, I promise. It's just that this morning, something flew into my head, I don't know, I'm sorry.” He's talking fast, all jumpy. Bossuet moves closer and pulls him to him, wrapping him in a hug.  
“Calm down, it's okay,” he assures him. “Chetta, group hug.”  
Musichetta smiles, regarding them lovingly before shuffling closer to join in._ _


	10. Socks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some hot stuff ahead- feel free to skip if you find smut uncomfy.

_Courfeyrac  
December 10th ___

__“Some say you get better orgasms while wearing socks,” Courfeyrac murmurs against Combeferre's lips, “So keep them on.”  
“I would keep them on anyway while we are here- ah, God- we ought not to do this,” Combeferre pants.  
“No one is at the café this hour, though.”  
“Yes, but… we ought not to do this at all.”  
“Just- why are you saying this now?” Courfeyrac asks, pushing his fingers deeper inside Combeferre to make him even more aware of their situation. Or rather, less aware, because it seems like Combeferre is thinking too much. Of course, Courfeyrac tends to worry about where their relationship is going, but not during the actual acts of “sinning”. That's the least likely time he would come to think of it. Combeferre doesn't respond to Courfeyrac's question and instead groans quietly into his shoulder, unfit to reply. They don't say anything more of the matter. Courfeyrac enjoys their swapped position today, Combeferre getting fucked instead of himself- even if they prefer the other way, this is quite refreshing. Today they chose the smart location of being behind the pillar in the backroom, rather than right down on the center table. Which was incredible, but too risky. However, Courfeyrac feels like Combeferre needs to spread his legs a bit more and whilst he himself would hoist his leg up and be able to get lifted, Combeferre is slightly heavier, less flexible. And Courfeyrac isn't strong for shit. He pulls his fingers out of Combeferre, who grabs hold of his neck to kiss him deeply, greedily.  
“Ferre, can you…-” he mumbles between kisses. Combeferre draws back, breathing heavily.  
“What?” he wonders.  
“On your knees on the floor.”  
Combeferre obeys and sinks down to the floor, Courfeyrac following, so they become a laughing mess for a few seconds before Combeferre sits up properly and turns around. Courfeyrac reaches out to pull his trousers a bit further down. It's strangely arousing, having sex like this, hardly removing anything. He has only unlatched Combeferre’s suspenders and pulled his trousers down to his knees, and that's it, save for his own open front. He bends over, running his hands over Combeferre's back and under his shirt, over his stomach and down to stroke him.  
“Christ, Combeferre. This is vulgar.”  
“Yet addictive. Go on. I don't know if I'm ready for it, though.”  
Courfeyrac chuckles as he slicks himself up with oil. “You are. Here goes.”  
He carefully enters Combeferre, both giving out pleased sighs. Courfeyrac, eager as he is, doesn't wait to speed up.  
“Goodness,” Combeferre groans. “I've- oh- thought about why it's sinful when it comes to- to same-sex intercourse, ah… what if there is no…-”  
“Combeferre, not now, seriously, you can't speak,” Courfeyrac says and fucks him harder, thinking that he’s probably not used to not being in charge of this- the whole having sex thing is a new matter on its own, and by taking charge of it, Combeferre feels like he's got control of the situation. Courfeyrac doesn't complain, because God, seeing Combeferre like that, getting manhandled like that… it's better than anything he's done before. Whilst Combeferre is pretty inexperienced behind his confidence with him, Courfeyrac is…  
Let's just say he's most definitely going straight to hell._ _


	11. Secrets

_Enjolras  
December 11th ___

__Enjolras is not happy with Grantaire. After starting an argument as usual in Combeferre’s apartment, Combeferre had soon had enough. He told Grantaire as well as Enjolras to go outside and cool off. Enjolras had been notably irritated at Combeferre, leaving him with a look that practically said, “Even you, Brutus?”  
Grantaire, used to being the only one that has to go, grins contently at Enjolras where they stand in the biting cold on the quiet backstreet outside.  
“Quit grinning at me like that, R. It was your fault,” Enjolras snaps.  
“It was not!” Grantaire complains, “And I won't talk to you. We were supposed to cool off.” He raises his bottle of absinthe, drinking it in big gulps.  
“Jesus. Slow down,” Enjolras says and lifts his hand to the bottle. He takes it and smells it, Grantaire watching him.  
“Have you tried it?” he wonders.  
“Yes. But only a few times. I don't drink it- I dislike the way it burns.”  
“I like the way it burns,” Grantaire says. “The way it burns away burning words, from a certain angelic asshole.”  
Enjolras scoffs. “You're drunk, Grantaire.”  
Grantaire laughs darkly. “No shit. And you've got anger problems. Or rather, hatred problems,” he says, pulling the bottle of absinthe out of Enjolras’s grasp.  
“I don't hate you,” Enjolras says.  
“Then why does it seem like you do? I hate you.”  
Enjolras draws in a sharp breath, closing his eyes. After a moment he opens them again, reaching out for Grantaire's cold, slightly sweaty hand. Grantaire looks questioningly at him.  
“We need to stop doing this,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire steps closer to him.  
“I'll stop if you stop,” he replies.   
“Fine. But you don't hate me.”  
“That's not for you to decide.”  
Enjolras places his other hand over Grantaire’s.   
“It isn’t true, though,” he murmurs.  
“How are you supposed to kno…-”  
“Grantaire, enough, alright? You're lying to me, constantly. Keeping secrets from me.”  
“What secrets would those be?” Grantaire wonders, pulling his hand out of his grasp.  
“I don't know,” Enjolras says. “You won’t tell me.”  
“Well, you don't have the right to demand the truth from me.”  
“I'm aware of that. But I won't understand you, nor know you if you won’t say anything.”   
Grantaire takes yet another swig of the alcohol.   
“You don’t want to know, believe me.” he mutters.  
“I want to know,” Enjolras says and steps forward, taking his hand once again. As he rests his forehead against his, Grantaire heaves a sigh.  
“Let’s save it for another day,” he replies, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’s neck.  
“Fine.”_ _


	12. Too much

_Éponine  
December 12th ___

__The choir of Notre Dame de Paris is caroling on the stairs of the cathedral today. Éponine cannot name the song they’re currently singing, but she’s heard it before, and it’s beautiful. But all too beautiful. Too moving, and too much. Éponine feels tears wetting her cheeks and swiftly lifts her hand to wipe them away. Why can't she handle this when she can handle every blow and jeer from her parents? She has, of course, learned to handle them through the years, hardened and become almost immune to them. But not to this. Today, Éponine had seen Marius on the street. Her stomach filled with butterflies, she had been excited to walk up to him, greet him in the usual way, watch his eyes land upon her and watch him smile fondly; she'd tease him and laugh with him, they’d talk and do something fun together- but that was not how it had turned out. The first thing Éponine did when she saw Cosette with Marius was to wonder how she could've been so stupid. So stupid not to connect the dots, Marius's talk about his blonde angel, Cosette's response when Éponine asked her if she had someone she loved. So stupid to keep ignoring the fact that Marius was deeply in love with Cosette. No matter how much he talked about her, no matter how many times his eyes lit up when he did, Éponine had always, always shrugged it off. Never oblivious, but pretending well enough for it to result in fooling herself. Éponine had been blind, and now the shock of realisation is slowly fading. It must be the choir, mending her broken heart with their soft, light voices in the most painful way. Perhaps they represent angels that cry with her. Éponine wipes away her tears again, attempting to calm herself down, to stop her chest from heaving and twisting itself.  
“How are you, mademoiselle?” an old woman, standing next to her in the crowd of watchers, wonders. She knows that it's not just the music that is making her cry.  
“I'm fine,” Éponine sobs. The woman puts an arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arms comfortingly. The action is warm-hearted enough to make her start crying for real. Éponine hides her face in her hand, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain.   
“Come, dear, let's step aside,” the old one says quietly, leading her out of the crowd off to the side. Without question she hugs Éponine, firmly but still with warmth and softness. Éponine finds herself easily letting herself be comforted. Closing her eyes, she weeps silently, her breath slowing down.  
“There, there,” the old woman murmurs. She pulls back, regarding Éponine with a caring smile.  
“Stay strong, my child. It may be stormy now, but it never rains forever.”  
And after saying these words she leaves off to the market in a slow pace, slow enough for Éponine to stop her if she needs her to stay. But she doesn't. She lets her go, turning towards the choir. She'll listen to the rest of it._ _


	13. In the closet

_Jean Prouvaire  
December 13th ___

__They’re mad. He’s mad. They’re all mad. Jehan regards his bruised knuckles where he sits with his legs folded in the broom closet of a restaurant. He thinks he should stay there for a while until it’s calmer outside. Maybe the others will look for him, though. He shuffles forward to push the door open a notch, immediately locking eyes with Bahorel.  
“There he is!” Bahorel exclaims, and Jehan opens the door fully because there’s no use staying hidden when Bahorel is being so loud about it.   
“Who?” Joly asks, and Jehan notices him standing in the doorway, brushing off sweat from his forehead with the hand that isn’t resting on his cane, his hair wind-blown.  
“Prouvaire. In the closet.”  
Grantaire, sitting down with his feet on the table by the back wall of the restaurant, barks a laugh. “In the closet! Ha.” He’s occupied with opening a bottle of wine. His lower lip, Jehan notices, is cracked. Jehan stands up and shuffles out of the closet, brushing off his trousers and straightening his waistcoat.  
“I think you have cake in your hair, Jehan,” Courfeyrac says from where he stands next to Bahorel, still out of breath.  
“Yeah. I noticed someone throwing a cake at me,” Jehan replies, lifting his hand to touch his hair.  
“Let me help you,” Courfeyrac offers, smiling at him.  
Enjolras and Combeferre come rushing in, their cheeks flushed, coats unbuttoned, hair disheveled- Enjolras has lost his hair band and his golden curls are as wild as his eyes.  
“Ah! Splendid!” he bursts out.  
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Combeferre sighs.  
“Need a drink?” Grantaire asks.  
“And a smoke,” Combeferre says. He sits down next to Grantaire, Courfeyrac joining them, and they pour up wine and pass out cigarettes. Enjolras stands next to them for a while, preferring to stand like usual, still agitated, his eyes on fire. He clenches the backrest of Courfeyrac’s chair. Jehan sits down with Joly and Bahorel on the table next to them and they discuss their injuries. Bahorel has gained a nice black eye, and Joly has stepped a little wrong and asks them if he should worry about his foot. Jehan notices Grantaire leaning back in his chair, keeping his eyes upon Enjolras as he drinks his wine. Jehan’s thoughts wander on to their little street adventure today. Their public speech stirred up the crowd- the friends were happy to engage in a good fight. Jehan, who is an aspiring pacifist and a lover of calm poetry readings and tea parties, threw cake, got the cake thrown back, and landed some punches on maybe some bourgeois folks. ‘You’re a strange yet wonderful being, Prouvaire,’ Bossuet had said to him once- ‘And also pretty terrifying.’ Jehan laughs fondly at the memory. And speaking of the devil, Bossuet enters along with Feuilly, and now they’re all gathered. Enjolras starts discussing the rally, but Jehan is a bit distracted, finding it amusing to watch Grantaire. His lip is bleeding, and he’s biting it- making it worse- his eyes fixed on Enjolras. Indulging in the sight of him. His feelings, his needs, desires, are so obvious to Jehan. He allows himself to smile at him, and wonders if Enjolras maybe, hopefully, has some affections for Grantaire._ _


	14. So hot

_Enjolras  
December 14th ___

__“I don't understand why all you have gotten injured while I haven't,” Enjolras mumbles as he cleans Grantaire's wound with a wet cloth. “And you got bitten in the arm, just… how?”  
“I'm me,” Grantaire replies.  
“No, you have to be Bossuet for that.”  
Grantaire laughs. “He's got bad luck, I'm uncouth. And besides, no one wants to hit someone as divine as you,” he says, raising his hand to stroke Enjolras's cheek. Enjolras takes hold of it to bring it down.   
“We shouldn’t…” he starts, his voice trailing off.  
“Why?” Grantaire wonders.  
“You know why,” Enjolras replies. “It’s unhealthy.”  
“Unhealthy? I’ve had some of the best moments in my life with you. After our first time, I was glowing inside for several days.”  
Enjolras regards Grantaire with a knot in his chest as he tries to keep a stern expression. He’s pained by his honesty that makes him unwillingly, but so badly to agree with him. He still holds Grantaire’s hand in his grasp, feeling his skin at his fingertips, so hot compared to the biting cold outside.  
“But that has to remain our only time,” Enjolras says, letting go of his hand.  
“As you wish,” Grantaire mutters. “The question is, though, why are you here if you don’t want us to be that way?”  
Enjolras wants to leave as much as he wants to stay, sitting where they sit closely opposite one another on Grantaire’s mattress. Sharing two thick blankets, legs touching. He feels such frustration at being so weak-minded. But looking at Grantaire at his face with his red-flushed skin and disheveled hair, his cracked lip and strange features, the face that should be ugly- he can’t feel anything else than… affection. Yes, Enjolras has affections for Grantaire. He’s so done for.  
“We could be friends,” Enjolras suggests, but it’s all so wrong.  
Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “No, we could not.”  
“I know,” Enjolras says. And he has his lips against his in seconds, his fingers tangled in his hair; Grantaire forces his tongue into his mouth, licking and biting and sucking and Enjolras should be ashamed but he doesn’t care; his hair falls out of its ponytail by Grantaire’s hands like it always does sooner or later when they’re alone- sometimes he just does it by himself when he comes to him. Kissing Grantaire is fire, passion, pleasure. So hot, so good, so addictive. Enjolras should stop, but the longer time they’re spending together, he’s forgetting how to do it._ _


	15. She didn't?

_Éponine  
December 15th ___

__It's decided- Éponine will get herself immersed in the activities of the friends of the ABC. It's easier said than done, but if Marius is close to these people(at least some of them) and if he will join them someday, she needs to be there. At six o’clock she arrives at the café Musain, combing her hair out with her fingers as she nervously makes her way to the back room. Éponine knocks, and soon a young man with auburn hair and weird sense of fashion opens.  
“Good evening, madame,” he greets, holding onto the door.  
“Good evening. May I enter? Listen a little?”  
“Beg your pardon, madame, but we're currently in a meeting of politics and mustn't let women enter.”  
“But I've been here before. I know Marius… And eh… grand R."  
“I'll ask the others,” the man says, but then changes his mind. “No, I won't ask the others, they won't listen. Just slip in quietly and sit with me. I'm Jehan,” he says, extending his hand.  
“Éponine,” Éponine says, shaking it, and then they enter the backroom. It's dimly lit, smelling of smoke and drink; the rest of the group are already here, gathered in groups at the tables. Éponine is led through the tight groups of tables to sit by the wall behind a pillar next to three others.  
“Oh, hello!” one of them whispers, a bald one with a charming smile.  
“Hi. You don't mind me being here?”  
“Not at all. Welcome, missus…?”  
“Éponine,” another fills in, a dark haired, scruffy looking fellow with a bottle in his hand.  
“R! Nice to meet you again,” Éponine whispers. R was one of the people she got acquainted with last year when she went here with Marius and his friend, de Courfeyrac. Éponine sees him in the center of the room, talking excitedly with two others that she was introduced to- Enjolras and Combeferre. She knows some of them, alright.  
“So, what are you doing right now?” Éponine asks, looking around at the bustling room.  
R furrows his eyebrows. “I don't know.”  
“We're discussing women's place and rights, quite fittingly,” the third fills in, bright and eccentric. “I'm Joly. It's a pleasure to meet you, Éponine!”  
“And I'm Lesgle, by the way,” the bald one says, “Indeed, a pleasure.”  
“Are you interested in the cause, Éponine?” Joly wonders.  
“Not as much as you are, certainly, but I wouldn’t like to be left out of it,” Éponine replies, a bit thrown back by the immediate questioning.  
“That’s understandable. We’ll need women in this debate,” Lesgle mumbles, nodding his head thoughtfully. “Oh, bugger, we should’ve brought Chetta!”  
“Oh! Indeed, we should have!” Joly agrees.  
“No, we should’ve not,” R sighs. “It would only end in the three of you babbling even more.”  
“I think you’re quite mistaken, R, we would do perfectly alright,” Lesgle disagrees.  
“Musichetta would have lots of things to say about the matter,” Joly adds.  
“Oh please, can you two just shut up?” R complains. Jehan, sitting quietly next to them, smiles. Joly and Lesgle start bickering again.  
“Amis, il faut faire une pause,” R starts singing raspily, waving his bottle exaggeratedly to make them stop talking, “J'aperçois l'ombre d'un bouchon…-”  
“Grantaire, you think now is a good time for singing songs?” Enjolras says sharply from the other end of the room.  
“Well, that’s just marvelous,” Grantaire, as Éponine realises his name is and not just R, grumbles to his table. “He notices we’re talking and waits for me to say something, because that’s when he can principally blame me.”  
“Grantaire, I’m talking to you!” Enjolras says.  
“Yes, I’m aware of it, thank you, sorry, we’ll be quiet, please carry on.”   
Enjolras rolls his eyes, turning back to his table, not noticing Éponine.  
“If you want to know more about the subject today, though, you should go to their table,” Lesgle whispers.  
“Don’t you ever do anything useful, then?” Éponine replies and Grantaire laughs.  
“They need to talk themselves off first,” he explains.  
“R always needs to talk himself off,” Joly says.  
Éponine smiles at them before she rises from her chair to make her way to the others at the long table, set on getting herself immersed on the subject at hand.  
“Oh, she didn’t!” Bossuet exclaims back at their table.  
“She didn’t?” Joly wonders.  
“She did,” Jehan says. “We should get moving too, friends. Let’s join their discourse.”  
Grantaire frowns at Jehan.  
“We’re joining their discussion- End of discussion,” Jehan finishes._ _


	16. Until midnight

_Cosette  
December 16th ___

__Cosette has told her father she will meet up with her good friend Justine, whom he has met and found to be a polite and charming girl. She has until midnight, then she must return home. Cosette feels a bit guilty, knowing father shows an awful lot of kindness to let her go at such a time of night when he’s constantly worried about her wellbeing. And here she is, at the doors of a big, beautiful house in the cold winter evening, not next to Justine, but to Marius Pontmercy.  
“We must be quiet and not let grandfather hear us,” Marius whispers to her, close enough for Cosette to feel his breath fanning her cheek and her heart skips a beat. He carefully pushes open the heavy wooden doors, peeking inside before letting Cosette enter first. The entrance hall is huge, with a high ceiling and a staircase taking up a good part of it. Marius leads Cosette up the stairs and down to a door in the end of a long hallway. On the other side of the door is a room appearing to be a library or study, with a sofa in front of a burning fireplace in the center.  
“There,” Marius says after closing the door behind him, “Now we can talk.”  
“This room, wow,” Cosette breathes. “It’s so cosy.”  
“Thank you. It is, isn’t it? One of my favourites.”  
Cosette takes off her gloves and bonnet as she looks around, at the dark wooden bookshelves, the writing desk and, walking up to the window and peering through the heavy curtains, at the dark garden outside.  
“You can put your things on the chair- or any other place is fine, by the way.”  
Cosette turns to the desk, placing her gloves and bonnet there before taking off her coat. Marius has his own coat on even if he only walked to the gate to meet Cosette, but she realises his grandfather thinks he’s away, so he won’t hang his clothes downstairs either.  
“Make yourself comfortable. I made tea, also,” Marius says.  
“Wonderful.”  
He shrugs off his coat as well as Cosette sits down on the sofa, reaching out towards the teapot to pour for them.  
“I’ll pour some for you, Pontmercy.”  
As Marius said, she makes herself comfortable, taking off her shoes to tuck her feet under her knees, placing the teacup in her lap on top of her dark blue skirts.  
In a moment Marius has sat down next to her as well. The safe distance between them has disappeared quite a lot since they’ve spent more and more time with each other, and Cosette sighs contently at the warmth of the fireplace, the soft sofa, Marius close to her. She studies his beautiful features in the light of the fire. She can see he’s not completely relaxed though, which is understandable. Cosette doesn’t know why she is so calm herself, thinking of the current circumstances, but she guesses it’s just her will to enjoy this moment as much as she can while it lasts.  
“What’s the matter, love?” Cosette wonders, lifting her hand to gently run her fingers through his auburn hair that has gotten a bit disheveled by the wind. Marius catches her hand in his own, his skin warm against hers.  
“Nervous, only. I hope grandfather won’t notice, and if your father…-”  
“Don’t think about it. I’m sure it’ll go fine. He thinks you’re away as well, right? Your grandfather.”  
“At Courfeyrac’s place, yes.”  
Cosette laughs. “My father thinks I’m at Justine’s place. We’re a bit crazy.”  
“Indeed. Cheers,” Marius says, clinking his cup against Cosette’s.  
The two of them drink their tea, easily falling into a relaxed conversation, letting the hours slip away. At last, the clock strikes eleven.  
“Thirty more minutes, then I’ll have to go,” Cosette says. Marius tries to hide his disappointed expression. He has taken off his shoes as well but isn’t quite as flexible as Cosette, so he’s just crossed his legs. He rests his arm against the headrest, turned to her, his head a bit on the side. Yes, Cosette is maybe looking at him too much. But Marius is staring as well, so. He reaches out for her hand and she lets it rest in his palm, half on top of his thigh, half on top of hers. They’re close enough to not have any space between. Cosette feels herself wanting to be even closer.  
“Marius, would you mind if I…” her voice trails off. Kissed you. She doesn’t dare to say it.  
“Would I mind what?” Marius wonders.  
A blush creeps up Cosette’s cheeks. Gods. She locks eyes with him, forces herself to not look away. “Ahem. Kissed you… I’ve never done it.”  
“Neither have I.”  
They edge closer, foreheads touching, silent; Cosette breathes in his scent, breathes out, eyes falling shut. She draws her hand out of his grasp to place it on his shoulder and tilts her head, Marius cups her cheek and presses his lips to hers, slowly, gently- And they share a first, tentative kiss. It’s perfectly alright. Cosette can’t breathe, but it’s perfectly, perfectly fine. They break the kiss and Cosette embraces him, buries her face in his neck. Marius exhales. So does she.  
“Cosette?” Marius mumbles.  
“I’m trying not to die, just.”  
Marius chuckles. “Okay,” he replies quietly. “Cosette?” he says again.  
“What?”  
“To be honest, I’m finding myself to be rather very much in love with you.”  
Cosette pulls back, smiling happily at him. “I believe I’m very much in love with you too.”_ _


	17. The tree

_Grantaire  
December 17th ___

__The owner of Café Musain has decided that the friends of the ABC owes the café a christmas tree. After another year of recurring loud debates and chaos starting in the backroom, bringing the café a fir tree would be the perfect gift to apologise for frightening off the café's guests. Of course they are allowed to stay next year however, because after all, they are the café's biggest source of income, and as if that wasn't enough, they're planning to overthrow the government as well.  
“How about we get two trees?” Joly suggests gaily as the friends trudge through the forest that has been covered beautifully white by the first snow.  
“Two trees?” Bahorel wonders.   
“You mean one for our backroom!” Courfeyrac says. “That'd be marvelous.”  
“But two trees means double the work,” Grantaire complains from the back of the group.  
“And double the fun, R,” Courfeyrac adds.  
“How about this one, friends?” Combeferre says, stopping in front of a tree. “It's of a good height- although perhaps too small, but if we're going to have two…-”  
“Don't tell me you want two trees as well, Combeferre,” Enjolras sighs.   
Combeferre looks at him, almost guiltily, before answering,   
“I would actually like to have two trees.”  
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Okay, well, I'm not holding you back. Who's cutting it down?”  
“Me,” Bahorel says. “You can take down that tree, Enjolras.”  
Enjolras looks at it, realising it would do well in the café's largest room, and looks at the group again, a bit reluctant.  
“Come on, Enj,” Courfeyrac says, “R and Bossuet may be stronger, but R is drunk and Bossuet is most likely to chop off his leg in the process.”  
“Don't call me Enj,” Enjolras says before grabbing an axe to start cutting down the tree.   
Grantaire, having nothing to do, strolls to the sleigh that the café rented to them, cuddling a little with the horse, Manon, before pulling up the green bottle he sneaked along on the journey. Tasting it and finding it very cold, he drinks it all- better finish it before it freezes. Then he walks back to the group, looking at Bahorel for a moment, and then turning to look at Enjolras. He has taken off his coat to swing the axe easier, hitting the bark with smooth, sharp movements that makes Grantaire stir inside. After a while Enjolras takes a short break, straightening up and re-tying his golden curls. His hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat; his cravat and a few buttons of his waistcoat are undone; he's breathing heavily- all this makes Grantaire stir even more inside. God, what if he would just excuse him and Enjolras from the group a little, walk further on into the forest, pin him against a tree… The drink is making Grantaire's mind spin, and he shakes his head, trying to knock it off. Enjolras finally cuts down his tree, and with the help of the others lifts it up on the sleigh. Being already done with Bahorel's tree, they start the journey home. When they walk down a small hill, Grantaire suddenly loses his balance and ends up lying in the snow, laughing.  
“He's drunk as a lord…” Combeferre murmurs worriedly.  
“Grantaire, you drunk bastard, what are you up to?” Bossuet asks him.  
“Ask my legs,” Grantaire says, looking down at himself. “Oh, oopsie daisy,” he laughs, “I'm hard, damn.”  
“Oh God,” Joly says next to them. “When and how did you get this drunk?”  
“La fee verte, my friends.”  
Enjolras walks up to Grantaire, bending down to help him up.   
“Not you, Enjolras,” Grantaire slurs as Enjolras seizes his arms, “Not you, why you?”  
“Why not me? Come on, let me help you sit in the sleigh.”  
“I'm drunk,” Grantaire says, feeling shame course through his body. Shame of Enjolras helping him even though he’s drunk, something he never does. Grantaire does not deserve being helped.  
“Yeah, you say so?” Enjolras says, hoisting him up on his feet.  
“I think I need to go rub myself against a tree…”  
“No, Grantaire.”  
Grantaire laughs again, cheerlessly, pained by himself saying it and Enjolras having to hear it. “I hate myself, I hate myself…”  
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says sternly and fixes his eyes upon him. “Stop.”  
The friends are quite silent on the way back to the café. They decide on decorating the tree, as they’re also expected to do, tomorrow even though Enjolras wanted them to do it all in one day so they wouldn't waste their last time for meetings before Christmas. But he doesn't seem to object. Instead he offers to take Grantaire home before bidding them a good evening. The rest have nothing to say to each other after that, really. They part ways. All pondering, consciously or not, about the unspoken in Enjolras and Grantaire's eyes._ _


	18. He's sober

_Combeferre  
December 18th ___

__Grantaire is sober the next evening when they gather once again to decorate the trees. Combeferre is perplexed by this, knowing well of what usually happens the day after one has drunk a lot- Probably waking up with nausea, a hurting body, anxiety, malaise and other withdrawal symptoms that causes one to drink even more. It’s different today. Grantaire is grumpy and tired, but not drunk. After having greeted everyone moodily he slumps down on a nearby chair, unties his cravat, gets himself a canteen of water and complains about a few things before turning thoughtful and quiet. Combeferre studies him discreetly as he and a few others hang up decorations on the tree they’ve placed close to the bar in the biggest room, where the entrance is. He wonders what Grantaire is thinking about, why he’s chosen not to drink even though he’s here and Bahorel has offered him wine, what happened yesterday between him and Enjolras. Knowing Enjolras better than anyone else in the group, more than Enjolras would like to admit, he’s aware of it all. His feelings for Grantaire, that is. Combeferre observed how Enjolras’s neglect of Grantaire turned to a will to help, to help him start caring and dreaming and believing again. It’s depression, no doubt of it- Enjolras sees it as well, even though Combeferre thought that he wouldn’t. But he doesn’t have enough patience. Enjolras goes on talking about how Grantaire will start pursuing his interests again, paint without performance anxiety, practice dancing and- boxing, was it? He talks about that maybe he will start believing in the revolution, believing in the possibility of a better world. So, so, impatient. Love goes hand in hand with patience, so, naturally, Enjolras’s attitude makes Combeferre slightly concerned. He wants to make him understand this, but talking to him about it is difficult. Enjolras knows that Combeferre knows, yet he never admits it, be it fear or pride. Combeferre almost has a want to tell him about him and Courfeyrac, but he isn’t ready to say it since he doesn’t know himself what they are- are they something that’s going to end? Or does he in fact love the man, not like a brother, but romantically?_ _


	19. Too many people

_Éponine  
December 19th ___

__Too many people, too many watching eyes. Éponine slowly distances herself from her family to not make an utter fool of herself. Christmas caroling beggars. That's not a concept she agreed with- even though she hasn't really agreed on any concept. However, this isn't wrong or barbaric, it’s downright embarrassing. Pathetic. Éponine makes her way out of the thick crowd so that she can breathe and decides to take a walk along the river. The day is cold and wet and the beautiful snow has been washed away by the rain, but the air is fresh and the sky is light since it’s early in the afternoon. Éponine doesn’t come far, however, before someone comes up to her.  
“Good day, Éponine!” Cosette greets kindly.   
“Ehm, hello,” Éponine replies, caught off guard and not really in the mood for socialising and being polite- she’s having a pretty bad day.  
“How nice it is to meet you again,” Cosette says.  
“Was it nice seeing me last time?” Éponine wonders, not persuaded.  
Cosette laughs. “It was strange, for sure. But through the drunkenness, you were kind.”  
“Oh, I’m so sorry about it all- it was a one time thing. I don’t usually drink like that.”  
“Good to hear.”  
Éponine nods, at the same time trying to stop poisonous thoughts from welling up inside. Cosette is fake, doesn’t care, just tells lies. No, no, no- Éponine is wrong, it’s just jealousy and fear and helplessness that makes her feel this way- Cosette is a good person. Marius loves her and that’s why she can’t be anything else than good, because Marius doesn’t let people who don’t deserve him get to him. Yet, does Éponine deserve him? She doesn’t. But she isn’t going to judge Cosette or treat her badly. She’s not a child anymore.  
“Thank you for helping me, by the way,” Éponine continues, “I’m sorry you had to see me in such a state. I was having a hard time that day.”  
“There’s no need to apologise, Éponine. It’s okay.”  
Yes, Éponine, quit saying sorry.  
“I have to go,” Cosette says, glancing back at a white haired man in a big coat behind her that is eyeing them pensively. Éponine recognises him- it was the man who came to them many years ago, to take Cosette away. She hopes that he is a good father to her. Luckily, he seems to be- They appear to be close and happy together. Éponine bids Cosette goodbye and watches them walk away, falling into her thoughts again. Cosette is kind. She could be a friend. But then again, in this kind of world, in Éponine’s reality? Maybe not._ _


	20. You won't believe

_Musichetta  
December 20th ___

__It’s morning. Musichetta wakes up in a too warm bed, drooling a little, her brown hair messy and in her eyes, among ruffled, peach coloured sheets. She stretches out her arms, feeling someone to her left and turns her head, opening her eyes tiredly. It’s Bossuet, laying half-naked and snoring. Musichetta smiles and pokes his cheek. Bossuet frowns confusedly in his sleep.  
“Good morning, Chetta!” Joly greets as he enters the bedroom with a tray.  
“Morning,” Musichetta replies, yawning as she sits up. “It’s warm in here. Should we open a window?”  
“Open the one behind you.”  
Musichetta turns in the bed, moving a few books and papers from the windowsill behind the bed frame before opening the window, not without a little effort. Joly sits down opposite her and the half sleeping Bossuet, putting down the tray between them.  
“Pick a cup,” he says and Musichetta turns back, looking at the tray where a coffee pot and three cups are placed. She picks the chipped white one with pink flower decor and then looks up at him. Joly’s cheeks are flushed, his hair disheveled and he’s wearing a nightshirt that has to be Bossuet’s because it is slipping off his shoulders. Cute. Musichetta kisses his cheek as he pours for them, making him smile.  
“Here you are, madame. Did you sleep well?”  
“I did. Dreamt a lot, though… about the three of us riding ponies in some mountains…”  
“Ah! In the next life, I’d like to be a pony.”  
Musichetta laughs. Bossuet stirs, props himself up on his elbows and rubs his eyes.  
“Morning, my beloved,” he mumbles, looking at the two of them who greet him back cheerfully. “You know what?”  
“No, what?” Musichetta wonders.  
“Today is the last meeting of the ABC before Christmas. After today, we’ll be having parties and doing other useless stuff,” he says gaily.  
“Is that the first thing you thought of waking up?” Musichetta asks, amused.  
“Oh, by the way, a letter from my family came this morning,” Joly says, walking up to his writing desk to fetch it, soon returning to the bed. “You won’t believe what they’re writing.”  
“What?” Bossuet wonders.  
“They want me home for Christmas. Practically demanding me. They haven’t wanted me to be home for Christmas in ages... Two years, to be exact.”  
Musichetta hums thoughtfully, a little disappointed- she thought that they’d spend Christmas together. Or at least with their friends from the ABC- Musichetta promised Joly and Bossuet she would come along, though not knowing if it would turn out to be fun. They and their friends have a tendency to get lost in their own world. But if Joly’s not coming, would she only be with Bossuet? And would Bossuet remember to be with her, being so forgetful and all?  
“Skip it,” Musichetta says.  
“I can’t do that! Or can I?” Joly exclaims.  
“You can,” Bossuet says.  
“Gosh, they already think I’m doing such nonsense all the time, and now I’m only making it worse…-”  
“You’re a young and adventurous soul, live up to it,” Bossuet continues.  
“Adventurous? I don’t think I’m adventurous exactly, I’m more of a rather stupid…-”  
“Wonderful young man who’s doing nothing wrong,” Musichetta fills in.  
Joly laughs. “Absolutely. Our gay little trio, doing nothing wrong…”  
“We’re serious!” Bossuet exclaims.  
“Yes, I am serious!” Joly says. “Nothing can possibly be wrong about this. You are wonderful, you two. Now, drink your coffee.”  
“Alright.”  
“Alright! Cheers.”  
They lift their cups, bringing them together with a little clink, and proceed to have a delightful morning._ _


	21. Bless you

_Enjolras  
December 21st ___

__It’s evening and Enjolras is laying on his stomach on his bed, reading. His neck and wrists are starting to hurt so he turns around to lay on his back, switching position once again like he’s done multiple times the past hour. Before, he took a walk in the biting cold, walking all the way to Montmartre and back. And before that he’d slept late, bought food and bathed. So, Enjolras doesn’t think he’s had a very productive day. It’s when he has Christmas holidays and no meetings with the ABC that he notices how tired and overworked he is. His desire to work hasn’t quite faded yet, though, but yesterday he forgot his papers with speech notes and some political books and texts at the café so he can’t proceed with his readings. Enjolras wants to go and fetch them and has been telling himself that he will the entire day. And of course, he hasn’t.  
It’s cold and he starts a fire in the fireplace, drinks some tea, wraps himself up in a blanket. Then there’s a knock on the door. Outside stands Grantaire, red faced and shivering.   
“Hello,” Enjolras greets, surprised.  
“Evening,” Grantaire replies. “It's so bloody cold outside.”  
“I know,” Enjolras says and smiles at him.  
“Here, I found your papers,” Grantaire says as he steps through the doorway, pulling them out of the big pockets of his coat and gathering them together in a heap which he hands over to Enjolras.  
“Oh, bless you,” Enjolras sighs. “I did nothing useful today and I was too lazy to go to the café.”  
“You needn't do anything, it's Christmas holidays,” Grantaire says, closing the door behind him. “I slept till the afternoon, went to the café and ate and played cards until a waitress asked if I could give you these.”  
“A waitress? Who knew they were mine?”  
“Musichetta.”  
“She's a waitress?”  
“Recently started working half-time, to fill up for her account keeping job. The other waitresses thought it was funny that I would have to do it since they are convinced we can't stand each other, but Musichetta seems to think otherwise…”  
“She's suspicious,” Enjolras says.  
“The entire ABC is suspicious. And honestly I think it's okay. For them.”  
Enjolras stares at Grantaire thoughtfully.   
“Just let it go, Enjolras…” Grantaire says. “And, um, can I stay?”  
“Oh. Yes,” Enjolras replies. “Let me have your coat.”  
“And have you noticed I'm almost practically sober?” Grantaire wonders as he shrugs off his coat. “I've only had two glasses of wine.”  
Enjolras nods as he takes it from him and hangs it up. “That's great.”  
Grantaire has almost never been in Enjolras's apartment. He has a living room, with a fireplace, and a sofa, and a carpet. The two of them end up sitting on the carpet with their backs resting against the sofa- it's closer to the fire. They share some bread, cheese, wine and a blanket. Grantaire asks about the papers and they look through the texts until they, not too long after, lose focus- it's Christmas holidays after all. Enjolras shuffles away the papers, stretching out his arms.  
“I feel like I won't get anything done during Christmas,” he mutters.  
“But you will! You will spend time with your friends,” Grantaire says, his voice fading into a murmur. “With me.”  
And he cups Enjolras's cheek, pulling him in for a kiss. His chapped lips are warm against his and Enjolras lifts his hand to slide his fingers through his dark curls, bringing him closer. Grantaire lets out a sigh and kisses him more deeply, pushing his tongue into his mouth, Enjolras willingly parting his lips for him. Having felt cold and restless throughout the day, he easily submits to Grantaire’s touch that makes his blood run wild and his head spin with want. More, more, more. Enjolras wants the whole of him. Everything._ _


	22. The day after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> behold the smut oop

_Grantaire  
December 22nd ___

__Waking up, Grantaire is just a little bit cold, his body aching but in such a good way. He lies pressed against Enjolras on the couch against his warm, bare skin- The blanket has fallen to the floor and he reaches out over Enjolras to grab it, pulling it over them both before he lays his head down on his chest. Determined to continue sleeping- even though the time should be around nine due to the pale sky outside the window and though he knows Enjolras likes to be up early- Grantaire closes his eyes, only focusing on listening to Enjolras’s slow, steady breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall. It’s soothing alright, but despite having put on the blanket again he is still a bit cold. Giving up on trying to sleep he props himself up on one elbow to gaze down at Enjolras, so incredibly gorgeous as always. Grantaire runs his fingers through his hair, moving them down to stroke his cheek, neck, collarbone. Then he presses some kisses to the same places. Soon Enjolras begins to stir in his sleep, his eyes fluttering open.  
“Grantaire,” he mumbles and Grantaire replies with a kiss to his lips. Enjolras shivers, softly kissing him back for a while until he pulls back, yawning a little.  
“Did you sleep well?” Grantaire wonders, and he nods.  
“I did,” Enjolras replies. “You?”  
“Oh yes. You remember last night?”   
Enjolras regards him, noticeably holding back a content smile.  
“If I remember.”  
Grantaire smiles. “And how was it for you?”  
“I liked it,” Enjolras says.  
“I wasn't too straightforward?” Grantaire asks cautiously.  
“Not at all. Was I?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire shakes his head.  
“You can never be. It was perfect, Enjolras, so perfect I still can't wrap my head around that it actually happened.”  
“It happened once before, though.”  
“Yes. I'd started thinking it had been a dream, but the second time was a pleasant reminder.” Grantaire smiles at the memory, still so fresh in his mind, and in his weary body. He moves his hand which had been buried in Enjolras's locks down to run it along the inside of his thigh, making him sigh softly. Grantaire kisses him again as he reaches around to stroke the curve of his behind. Enjolras breathes in sharply.  
“Maybe we should…-”  
“What? Stop?” Grantaire interrupts him. “When you’re laying here, obviously enjoying it?”  
“Mornings make me feel… I don’t know, exposed,” Enjolras mumbles.  
“Too aware of what we’re doing? What, you need to hide in the dark and sleep off your regrets?”  
“Grantaire, please…-”  
“Enjolras, please! God! Can’t you just let me do what I need to do?”  
“What you need to do?” Enjolras repeats, starting to laugh. “What do you need to do?”  
“I need to fuck you. And I need you to drop your bloody pride and submit to it.”  
“You’re going to…-” Enjolras starts, blushing.  
“Fuck you. With my fingers,” Grantaire says, holding his hand up to wiggle them, making Enjolras roll his eyes, before reaching out over him to pick up the oil vial from yesterday. He looks honestly nervous, having only topped before, and Grantaire smiles at him.  
“Enjolras. It’s okay, we don’t need to do it.”  
“Don’t be silly,” Enjolras replies, spreading his legs, and Grantaire’s heart skips a beat. He pulls off the blanket, exposing their naked skin and immediately starts leaving wet kisses down Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras groans, burying his fingers in Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire is fast to pour oil on his fingers as he leaves bite marks on Enjolras’s skin and then eagerly reaches down to tease his entrance.  
“Gods, R.”  
“Gods indeed. You are a fine example.”  
Grantaire pushes one finger deep inside of him, his lips still upon him, moving up to lick at his nipples. After a few thrusts he adds another finger, then a while later a third, curling and spreading them inside him. Enjolras clutches his shoulder tightly, panting and moaning so beautifully by all the attention he receives.   
“Oh! God, there, right there,” he says. Grantaire smiles, satisfied at finding his prostate. He only needs to thrust on the spot a few more times before Enjolras climaxes, his muscles contracting around Grantaire’s fingers and he stutters something incomprehensible. When he starts to relax Grantaire pulls out of him, kissing his neck and cheeks.  
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” he asks,  
“Not too bad at all,” Enjolras replies, a smile on his lips._ _


	23. Water

_Combeferre  
December 23rd ___

“ _Archimedes was able to determine that the crown was not pure gold due to the volume of the displaced water, because even though the weight of the crown was identical to the weight of the gold that the king gave the crown maker, the volume was different due to the various densities of the me…- _”  
“Reading to yourself out loud again?” Courfeyrac says from where he stands in the doorway, stirring Combeferre out of his focus.  
“Oh. Apparently, yes,” Combeferre replies, giving out a small laugh. Courfeyrac walks up to the table he's sitting at which is crammed in between the room's two bookshelves. It's a small room in the corner of the library that Combeferre loves to sit in, because if it's not already occupied, you can usually keep it all for yourself- it's awkward to sit together with strangers in such a small space. Courfeyrac gives Combeferre a hug, holding onto him for maybe too long and maybe too closely, making Combeferre swat him away.  
“But we're alone…” Courfeyrac says.  
“I know. Nevermind,” Combeferre replies, putting the book down on the table and leaning back. “So, what are you doing here, then?”  
“Looking for you. No, not really- Law books, in fact, but I thought you would be here. See, I have a quite folly idea…”  
“M-hm? And what would that folly idea be?”  
Courfeyrac bites back a smile as takes a seat. “It would be to go to the, you know, Charmeltier bathhouse, enter all un-suspiciously like two good friends, get a private room and then…”  
Combeferre folds his arms with a sigh. “It's folly, alright, my dear Courfeyrac.”  
“And it would be quite… romantic as well, don't you think?”  
Combeferre is silent, seemingly deep in thought. Courfeyrac sits next to him wondering for a moment- wondering about what's going on inside the other's head- but then his thoughts fly off, to dreams of bathing together, both enveloped in warm water, a comforting silence, them alone. At the same time Combeferre is thinking of Archimedes and his principle and bathtubs that are his and not the ones of the bathhouse, and of his famous Eureka moment and not about Courfeyrac naked…  
“Combeferre? What do you think?”  
“I… am afraid I'm not very positive.”  
"What do you mean?" Courfeyrac asks, frowning.  
“It's too risky,” Combeferre says. “And the romance thing, I'm not sure I am the one who…-”  
“I don't care if you're awkward, Ferre.”  
“No, I mean… I don't play that part in your life, do I?”  
Courfeyrac's face falls.  
“I'm not one of the people in your romantic social circles… in your love life,” Combeferre continues.  
“Of course you're not!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “You're more than that. You are my closest friend and hold a special place in my heart. Don't sigh at me, Combeferre! I'm just being honest.”  
Combeferre regards him uneasily. He's not honest enough. Yes, they are close friends and hold a place in each others’ hearts, but they feel the same for Enjolras, do they not? And for the whole of the ABC even if not as strongly? Courfeyrac is obviously onto something different, something that Combeferre feared when they started being so stupid, so ruthless in participating in such close acts- Why did they have to do that? Combeferre doesn't deem it sinful, but that doesn't mean he doesn't believe it to be foolish as well. Because whilst they can get away with not being caught, they cannot get away with falling in love. From there, it's a lost cause, a road to unhappiness- it's then society will get to them. In Enjolras and Grantaire’s case, on the other hand, Combeferre doesn't feel pity- it's to no use. He knew it was too late the moment Grantaire laid eyes on Enjolras.  
“You’re special to me as well, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says after being quiet once again. “And that's why I regret what we've started doing recently- It changes our relationship. Perhaps, in another world, for the better, but in this world for the worse. There's simply no room for us. You need to find someone else.”  
Courfeyrac looks at him disappointedly.  
“I'm sorry,” Combeferre says.  
“No, don't say that,” Courfeyrac replies, rubbing his face with his hands. “It's just that I thought we had this thing going on, but, apparently, it’s not as real as I thought it was.” He stands up, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the floor as he does, and makes for the door. Combeferre wants to tell him to wait, but his voice lets him down and he remains silent. The door slams shut; he is left alone.__


	24. 3, 2, 1...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide attempt, abuse

_Grantaire, Éponine, Cosette  
December 24th ___

__The church bell not far from Grantaire’s room strikes twelve o’clock, an evident reminder of that time is passing whilst he is thinking, hurting, holding it off. He doesn’t want to hear the sound of the church bell, of people up late down in the street, talking and living their lives, he doesn’t want to hear Enjolras yelling at him from the other side of the door. Can’t he be allowed to die in complete, utter silence?_ _

__Two siblings outside the window- the third caught with her hands on the windowsill, so close to succeeding. Éponine stands frozen, grasping Gavroche’s shoulders tightly, staring at the open window. The small bag with the things she managed to gather lies forgotten on the ground.  
“Let Azelma go!” she cries.  
“No, you get back here, insolent child! How dare you?” her father bellows, holding tightly onto Azelma’s wrists. Hot tears form in Éponine’s eyes as she watches her sister’s terrified expression. Bastard, bastard, bastard._ _

__Dark, unknown streets lead in every direction, and Cosette has lost her way. She shouldn’t have gone for a walk in a part of town she doesn’t know, she should’ve just stayed in the wine shop she and father were visiting. Why was she childish enough to not be able to wait in there? Behind her, Cosette can hear a stranger’s footsteps. Sweat pools down her back as her nervosity grows, but slowly turning around a little she can see that it’s only a policeman, probably on night patrol. He looks familiar, but Cosette isn’t certain. Perhaps she should ask him for directions?_ _

__“What?!” Grantaire wonders after Enjolras has yelled his name for five minutes.  
“Oh, God!” Enjolras says from the hallway. “Now you’re replying! Will you please open the door?”  
“Why?” Grantaire wonders, choking back tears.  
“Feuilly told me you stole a gun from the café and I’ve been worried sick, are you okay?”  
Grantaire looks down at the pistol in his hands which are shaking. His whole body is shaking more or less, cold and pale- he can barely feel anything because of the alcohol.  
“Grantaire?”  
Enjolras. The most perfect, divine creature on this Earth. Grantaire doesn’t deserve him- he’ll only make it worse for him. He’ll only make it worse for them all.  
“Grantaire? Answer me!”  
He doesn’t mean anything to him, won’t mean anything to anyone after this.  
“Grantaire? Would you stop fucking with me? Open the door!”  
Grantaire has to do it now, or Enjolras might convince him. Now, and then it will all be over- they will be rid of him. He counts down._ _

__A thin line of blood streams down the side of Azelma’s head as she’s crying, desperately trying to swat away her father’s grip on her hair. Éponine wraps her arms around Gavroche, trying to cover his eyes or turn him away, but he stays stubbornly in the same place. A hard slam against the side of the window, and Azelma is bleeding, stumbling, losing her foothold. Do it again, and she’ll be dead.  
“Stop it, you bastard!” Gavroche bursts out. Éponine hushes him, her heart threatening to jump out of her chest.  
“Please, father, just let her go,” she pleads. “We’ll never set foot here again, we’ll never give you away to the police, we’ll just leave now and not take anything with us…-”  
“You have three seconds to get back here, or I’ll do it again,” father warns, his voice cold yet furious. And he counts down._ _

__What if it’s not a policeman? Cosette asks herself over and over again, to every time reassure herself that yes, it is a policeman. But what would she say? Good evening, I can’t find my way back to the wine shop… Good evening, I am looking for the wine shop… where my father is, Cosette remembers she should say- she doesn’t even know if she’s allowed to be out this time of night, the police could take her somewhere… Good evening, my name’s Cosette, I need to get to the wine shop where my father is but I cannot find my way back? Good enough. Cosette takes a deep breath. She recognises this man somehow, and it makes her feel anxious for some kind of reason. But let’s just ask him. She counts down._ _

__3, 2, 1._ _

__The sound of the shot echoes off the walls, almost stirring the entire building a little. The bird Grantaire hadn’t realised was sitting on the windowsill outside flies away, and the people down on the street give out exclamations of shock and fear. The hallway is silent. Grantaire stares at the hole in the wall and wonders what Enjolras is thinking right now. He tries to be as quiet as he can, listening for any sounds coming from the other side of the door. For a moment there’s nothing. Then he hears his breathing- rapid, troubled. Enjolras slowly sinks to the floor, gasping for air.  
Grantaire cups his hand over his mouth, trying not to panic as well- he should just end it right now but he can’t. He just can’t. Having forgotten about the bottle next to him, he accidentally knocks it over when moving his leg. It falls to the floor with a thud that Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice, but the wine in it spreads like thick blood over the floorboards and straight through the doorway. Fuck. On the other side, Enjolras jolts back, his shoes or whatever somehow hitting against the wall, and then goes quiet- realising it’s wine- but it’s as if that’s blood to him as well. He kicks the door and screams, breaks into sobs. Inside, Grantaire drops the pistol to cover his ears with his hands._ _

__Éponine cradles Azelma in her arms where they half-lie on their shared mattress, her back against the wall with its torn tapestries. She strokes her younger sister’s hair, wishing she had some water and cloth to clean her wound. Azelma is staring at the opposite wall, her shock slowly wearing off.  
“Will she be okay?” Gavroche says, asking Éponine- Azelma won’t answer.  
Éponine nods at her brother. “She will. Definitely.”  
Gavroche, relieved, takes off his coat before crawling up next to them to sleep. He can be certain that Éponine is telling the truth since he never accepts lies from them. Éponine wipes away her tears as soon as they escape her eyes. She can’t let herself cry now. An hour passes until Azelma eventually closes her eyes. When she’s fast asleep Éponine carefully lays her down on the mattress, her head resting on the makeshift pillow, her coat. Éponine stands up on weary legs and stretches, looking around the room. It’s small and the door is shut as well as the window shutters, taunting her with claustrophobia. She leans against the wall and closes her eyes, imagining running through the streets of Paris in the night, alongside Marius. Like they did, at least a few times. But they never stopped by the river, panting and laughing, never sat down on one of the benches close to each other, never kissed each other eagerly and passionately, hidden in the darkness of the night. In Éponine’s head, that part has happened millions of times, in millions of ways. Éponine is burning inside despite what happened tonight. She’s gotten skilled at washing her shame away, her reality away. In her head no one is there to see what they do. They can do whatever they want to do, go as far as they want to go. As far as she wants to go._ _

__The door of the wine shop closes behind Cosette, and one second later her father is hugging her tightly.  
“My child, how glad I am that you’re back!” he says, almost anxiously. Cosette pulls back to look at him wonderingly.  
“Is everything alright, father?”  
“Oh, yes, yes of course. Did you lose your way?”  
“I did,” Cosette admits, walking with him further inside to sit with him at a table. The owner whom father had been speaking to nods to her in greeting and she nods back with a smile.  
“I know, I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.”  
“Next time I’ll be more clear about when you can go, and how far,” her father says. A look of worry crosses his face again, though, and he asks,  
“Did you happen to see a policeman on your way?”  
“Yes. I was going to ask him for directions, but remembered the way. Besides, it didn’t feel very safe talking to him…-”  
“You were very right in doing so, Cosette. Don’t talk to anyone I don’t talk to, even if it’s a police officer. I shouldn’t have let you go…”  
“It’s alright, father,” Cosette says, starting to get frightened by how afraid father looks. “Let’s go home. If you’re done managing your businesses here?”  
Father nods distractedly before going to fetch his coat. Cosette stands up and looks out through the window at the dark street outside, feeling the fear, deeper than she thought it was, slowly slipping away._ _

__

___The end…? ____ _


End file.
